Get Well Soon
by QuinnRonan
Summary: Natasha searches for solace in her life built upon frenzy, sex and addictive behavior. She half-heartedly confides in an eccentric therapist (Benedict Cumberbatch) in which she is accidentally introduced to. Through her turbulent journey, Natasha stumbles love, obscurity and death-anything to get well, soon.
1. Intro

Someone once told me that I spent my life skillfully walking a tightrope between reason and impulse. It sparked something within me that I'd never thought to thoroughly ponder.

Reason and impulse: two very different, very opposite-ends-of-the-spectrum meanings.

"You've become the ringleader of this chaotic bazaar; a three ring attraction where you are also the main event,"

I could see myself suspended around millions of people, some of which I knew personally; others I'd ever made eye contact passing through the city. Spreading my arms wide, my chin up high, eyes focused on the glare bouncing off of the taut wire. I could feel it tense beneath the bones of my feet. The lights hung high atop the tent melted every qualm, every fear, every doubt.

"And everyone you've ever come in contact with will be sat ringside, speculating. Some of them have come to watch you flawlessly tiptoe to your destiny, most will want to see you fall to your fate,"

I didn't know it then, but as time progressed, I realized where he stood aside from the wire, the spectators, the hot lamps on my back.

He was my balance.


	2. The Worst

I remember the exact moment of initially realizing I wasn't exactly the same as every other first-grader. In fact, I reminisce quite frequently. In itchy tights and belted shoes, I could feel my eyes scanning the room again. Faces, colors, so much obscurity in a room full of children who hadn't learned to eat with proper utensils. My fingers tensing and eyes flinching at the child who sat left of the board; a cartoon character befittingly splattered on the front of his shirt, blue Jordache jeans and his finger so far in his nose he could poke a memory. I still felt my head spinning in madness.

_Why?_ I thought, _Why did I have to be placed in the room with imbeciles who wouldn't know Purel-from spit!_

Sincerely speaking, I was just as disgusted with myself for adjusting to this group of heathens. Coming to a close understanding, but never conforming. Those were the initial days of the first instincts I've ever gained as a human being-observing the public in complete discretion. I could have used my willful duties as a foreign spy but I wasn't about to waste my talents watching the affluent. I could have excelled as a paparazzo, but I hadn't been the type to bury myself in trashcans, closets or lawsuits for a shot of the wealthy. Instead, I spent days in plain sight, being a voyeur of the unknowing, a sleuth of the nodding, sighing and complacently woeful passengers of public transportation.

I spent late mornings going to class just watching them. They all seemed so comfortable, so at ease with their filthy surroundings. I looked around and all I could see was the bacteria slithering on the poles and handrails. They were all so hopeful to get to where they were going on time that conjunctivitis wasn't standing in their way. I scoured, lightly redirecting my peripheral view and watched as another blank canvas entered the car.

_**Female:**_ About five feet-six inches, of Spanish descent, chestnut hair hangs neatly at her shoulders. She takes a seat in the aisle across from me, but two rows ahead. She places her purse comfortably on her lap and taps away. No rings or tan lines present on her fingers so we both had something in common. Her latent demeanor stares out of the window of the passing train with an ambiguous smirk. She wore scrubs and nameless, black sneakers.

**Single  
Nurse.  
Mother**-Along with those scrubs was a small stain of mashed sweet potatoes and carrots near the pocket of her pants that stood out in a proud orange crust.

Our lives hadn't resembled each other's in the slightest bit; the objective in being invisible is to search for the invisible in plain sight. What really makes it interesting is going completely unnoticed staring down complete strangers. It was a daunting task but someone had to do it. Fanatics wouldn't be the word I would use to compare the fleeting feeling of awkwardly surveying random people. There were no words that fit best, honestly.

She grabs the handle of the empty seat getting up and goes over to the automatic sliding doors. That smirk stupidly slid across her face as the train whizzed past those standing on the platform. More blanks. She taps impatiently on the handle rails. Her foot bobs up and down on her toes as she waits for the train to come to that slow, agonizing halt. The doors open and she flies out, only to be embraced by a man, almost twice her size. An older gentleman, hair greying on the sides and nurturing hands. They walked off of the platform and to the stairs of the concourse.

I sat grimacing. This was an everyday routine now. Scout, survey, pout, and repeat. The position came with a little covetous reluctance; not that I wanted to be that kid probing his nose for treasure, or the junkie sat biting his nails. I didn't want to be that 5PM crowd who lived in the suburbs and had cars but took the train for irony. I didn't want to be any of these things. I wanted to be a blank canvas one day. I wanted to be someone whose emotions, thoughts and general feelings couldn't be purveyed from my exterior. The thoughts of vulnerability and apparent weakness were what took the pleasure away from it most days. For the rest of the ride, I just stared blankly out of the window for moments to pass, inventing a blank canvas for myself.

That day was going to play out differently. I wasn't going to be bullshitting in school, pretending to shame myself for not bringing a sketchpad on the train to draw people and how interesting they were. That day, I was going to be a blank canvas for someone with a degree; someone paid to tell me that I might as well get start upping my dosage of Xanax and prescriptions to keep me sane. Their children ate off plates financed by the secrets of a thirty-six year-old lawyer who is still living the consequences of her problematic youth. Imported furnishings in a Victorian that sat high on a hill; that came from telling a man that his wife was rather sick of his couch potato antics. Their duvets and pristine lighting filling the master suite-funded by sad sacks, jittery twenty-something's and anxious, upper-class teenagers.

Where was I going to fit in? I was neither of those. I didn't know what was wrong with me; I just knew everything was wrong with me. No leather padded chaise lounge was ready for what I was about to bring.

My stop approached. My eyes were so dry from me forgetting to blink-they watered. I bit my lip pensively regretting even letting the issue of all issues _(my mother)_ talking me in to seeing a shrink. It was almost hard to pass up, as she was willing to pay for it. Though, it would just be used on a hopeless trip to Anguilla to try and pull together her failing marriage; she just wanted to see me be something bigger than myself. I couldn't fault her for that, but in everything I voluntarily bowed out of _(See: art school, healthy relationships with people, etc.,),_ she never forgot to embellish any chagrin I felt. She just wanted to _fix me;_ couldn't do it herself, seeing as she hadn't known what was initially out-of-order. She made the decision to pay someone else to find out.

"Whatever…" I sigh; I walked up the stairs to the concourse. I stood grimacing at the sunless sky. It was already so grim underground, it was sad to see that the sun wasn't up to making any appearances today. There was a cloud that hung over the city in an impenetrable autumn haze. I pulled my leather biker jacket closer to me as the wind whipped through my straight ebony hair. I walked a block further in the direction of the address I was given to the Amazing Shrink. I didn't know much about her; I knew that she was an older woman and that she talked over cosmopolitans and old fashions with my mother on numerous occasions.

I felt my phone vibrate through my bag. I pause, moving to the side of the hustle and bustle of New York City pedestrian traffic. I could tell by the length of the vibration, that it had been a text message. I rolled my eyes knowing no one I cared for, not that I particularly cared for anyone, was trying to communicate with me. I pulled my phone out, seeing that I was right.

_**You busy tonight?**_

I looked up to the sky, almost asking for a comet to come down and plummet directly into the face of my phone. I stood there, slowly breathing and half-wishing I changed my number months ago. I stood there and realized that all-or most-of my issues were people. I was two blocks from this "shrink" and I was already making inward progress. I was proud of _me. People are your problem, _I thought. I nodded knowing that I was going to find that fix.

_**Nope. See you around 7.**_

And in that exact moment, I lost my will to finding the fix. I had my unhealthy yearning for meaningless sex that stood in my way. It was the bully that smacked my hand out of the way when I was reaching a breaking point to obtaining reasonably healthy relationships. After a couple bruised digits, I presumed they weren't meant for me. An orgasm was an orgasm and at least I was getting something out of it too.

I placed my phone back into my bag, pretending I didn't let myself down; not that it would have been the first time. Honestly, I really should have gotten used to it by now. I was a block away and I could see the tall glass building towering everything in its path. My stomach grew awkward butterflies that flew into each other blindly, knocking one another out in the process. I stood in front of the building and let it conquer me. I felt like Jack, ready to slay the ogre-like Giant. But I didn't have a sword, and I barely had a voice strong enough to scare it.

_Oh well,_ I thought. _What's the worst that could happen?_

This woman knew my mother who, I'm sure, is not even from this planet. She felt entertained enough by her to go to happy hour with her on Wednesdays-I'll be a cakewalk.

I walked into an open door that was held by a man with a navy shirt and dusty light-washed jeans on. He wore a baseball cap, too. It had a truck logo on it, which matched the small logo on the shirt. He must have been a mover of some sort.

"Thanks." I smiled.

"My pleasure!" He piped. I didn't hassle the receptionist, as I knew exactly where the office was. Many a day, I was summoned up here to console my grieving mother who decided on a fifth of vodka instead of the usual bacon-and-eggs for breakfast. Walking through the lobby, there were a group of men moving a leather patted chaise in the direction of the exit. I thought nothing of it as I continued padding my Converse laden feet up the corridor.

The only thing I could think of was making sure I let this woman know that I was nothing like my mother.

_I'm nothing like her, I'm nothing like her,_ I chanted in my head, pressing the button of an elevator.

The doors were a beautiful cherry-oak with comforting baroque designs carved into them precisely. I watched the analog dials countdown, popping my foot up and down impatiently. That was definitely another thing that I was going to pledge to work on-my intolerance of waiting. I was doing so well already, hadn't even gotten into the room yet.

The doors open to men and women dressed fully in pantsuits, business suits, pencil skirts and blazers. Not taking three seconds to notice me, many of them too busy on their devices to realize that they bumped into me. I heaved a long sigh and waited for the grey and black muted sheep to clear out of the elevator and I stepped in. The doors remained wide open for thirty seconds; I look around the corner and make sure no one is coming before I let the doors shut. Relief washes over me as I was alone; I had an odd affinity for being alone in elevators. I watched analog dials count up to my floor, the 11th floor.

I grew a little more anxious as the numbers slowly turned into each other. The elevator dings as it finally reaches eleven. I hastily walk forward before the doors have a chance to open. Before I could look up, I brushed shoulders with a mess of medium length hair and a pair of hands glued to a phone. On impact, the phone flew out of his hands and into the air in slow motion. The two of us stood there and watched it gracefully dance through midair. Within seconds, it dismounted on the grey carpet. In frenzy, I grabbed it, as it was still very much intact. Without a word, I picked it up and held my mouth agape as an apology was left gurgling in my throat.

"Oh my-my God, I'm so sorry," I pleaded. The phone—thankfully- remained unscathed. I handed it back to the stranger as a small playful smile played across his unshaven face. His mess of untamed, medium-length, dark-auburn hair framed his small face. Dull blue eyes poked through what his hair hadn't been covering, but they weren't glancing in my direction.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," I wanted to say sorry again, but then I realized my mouth was still open. "This thing's old anyway. Reckon I get a new one soon, yeah?" My first thought was to giggle a cute sigh but his accent caught me way off guard. His smile was a little crooked, but adorably crooked. "See ya." He waved in my direction but not at me. _Weird,_ I thought.

"See ya next week, James," Before turning around, I heard a deeper voice; slightly mimicking the accent the stranger formally-know-as-James spoke with. This was much richer, more fastened at the hems and you could tell it was almost trained. Getting lost in _Diction 101,_ I remembered that I was still facing the elevator like an idiot, a petrified lamb. Heaving a deep breath, I turned and walked down the rest of the corridor. I didn't catch a glimpse of the person behind me, as he disappeared into the office he came out of. There was one more office left down from his in the narrow hall, this was my destination. The offices were placed far apart, I guess for privacy reasons. It was a good thing that stranger formally-know-as-James or the Other-British Shrink, couldn't hear my mother's drunken cackles when she visited.

_What a blessing._

I arrived to the door with an ounce of confidence. I couldn't wait for her to help me get my shit together, but I wasn't really fond of the process. I hated opening up to complete strangers, especially the ones who knew of my mother. I curled my long fingers into a ball and placed three audible knocks on the door. I waited around for nothing when I did it again. Out of my peripheral, I could see Other-British Shrink stand outside of his door, casually leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his head in the direction of the elevators across from his office.

"She left last week," I turned toward the sound of the rolling bravado in his vocal chords. He sighs, walking slowly toward me. I shrivel in fear. He didn't serve as a threat but his voice was just so broad it snapped that ounce of confidence I had. I stand in the same position with my head tilted slightly, watching him walk slowly. He was dressed business casual. He had a chambray button-down with dark-washed denim and John Varvatos Hipster shoes.

He stops five feet away from me. "She was one thigh-rub away from a lawsuit, that one," I guess that was shrink humor. "I'm Ben," I could feel him slowly surveying me without having me know it. I looked up with eyes devoid of any readable emotion to his figure that stood at least a-half-a-foot over me. He had neat-short, dark brown (almost black) hair that had hints of red in it. One side was pushed back, the other in perfect waves that crest behind his ear. His eyes were unbelievable-almond shaped with blue-green crescents filling them. They were a little too far apart as he had a distinctive look about him. His cheekbones sat proudly under them. They were as sharp and polished as he was. His top lip formed the perfect Cupid's bow and his bottom lip-full. In that moment, I guess we stood as blank canvasses to each other. "And you-" He holds out his large-long-fingered-hand as a welcoming gesture. I slowly raise mine to meet his. "-You must be Natasha," He gives it a firm shake, warming my nervous clammy palms.

"Yeah…" I gave him a skeptical glare, negating the trust of his British tongue. That was the only reply I could muster. Deep down, I was cursing my mother for neglecting to tell me her shrink had skipped town.

_I could ring her drunken gullet,_ I thought.

Shrink-formally-known-as-Ben kept this omniscient smirk on his long face. Kind of making all of his distinctive traits come together into something that made sense.

"You're my twelve o'clock," He turned his back to me as I was fitting to run in the other direction and skip out on this session for good. I don't even know this man. I didn't know the woman either but at least she knew what I was dealing with, I swore this shit only happened to me. I was frustrated to the point of exhaustion; I followed him into his office. It was immaculate. He shuts the door behind me. He silently motions me to sit on his lounge. Walking up to his desk, He pulls out two mugs from a cupboard. "Just in time for tea." He sighs.

This _was_ the worst that could happen.


	3. You Will Leave A Mark

In a calculating order, my fingertips tapped softly onto the leather lounge. His back faced me as he calmly stirred two mugs of steaming tea simultaneously. Everything about his demeanor was so serene, I could tell by the way his shoulder blades shifted in unison with his hands working the silver spoons.

Suddenly, the stirring ceases and he gives a curious glance over his left shoulder. I watch slowly as his long neck contorts, like a snake switching tactics. With that all-knowing smirk, he blinks and returns to the barrage of clinking silver-to-porcelain. I grip the cuffs of my leather jacket. My nails almost digging into the seams-I was so put-off by his patient heir.

"You know," He lifts a tray off of the counter and onto his desk, that smirk still playing on his lips, unscathed by the concentration in how softly he lie the tray onto the front of his desk. He snickers, "You can take your jacket off, at least," Grabbing the mug from the tray, and he slowly walks it over to where I'd been sitting on the leather chaise. His long arms extend to me slowly in hesitation, as if I'd slap it out of his hand and run away. Don't be mistaken; I'd thought about it. His hand was close enough to me for me to feel the steam rise from the boiling tea dampen the small hairs between my eyes. My head draws back slowly as does his hand. It wasn't likely he'd force the mug into my hands, but I couldn't be too sure.

My shoulders shifted as my jacket loosened from their poise. The jacket slinked down my arms almost too fast. He stood there with the mug closer to his chest. I concentrated on the quivering spoon as he withdrew breaths. The spoon quietly clinked against the mug again; while my hands drew themselves threw the sleeves. He smiles an unreadable grin as my arms are free of the contracting pleather and I reach out to handle the warm mug. My trembling fingers, much like the spoon rattling around, they hooked themselves into the handle as my left hand guided the bottom.

"Thanks," It was all I could squeeze out. It came out like a squeak, that of a mouse being clawed within inches of its life. He returns to his desk, easing himself swiftly in a beautiful, leather padded chair.

Everything looked so expensive in his office, he included. The walls were coated with shelves, and the shelves were aligned with every book that had ever been published...ever. The carpet was low, but it was soft enough to cushion the sound of footsteps. It even smelled lavish; a light lavender scent with a hint of vanilla thinly graced the air.

Lightly grabbing the edges of his desk, the swivel chair rolled it's way to the opposite side of the desk.

"Pleasure's all mine," He smiles, but it goes away as he looks toward the tall bookcase adjacent where he sat. Reluctantly, he lifts himself from his throne and begins to search carefully for something his mine left to wander. While he wasn't looking, I took a sip. It was fairly warm, as it had cooled quite a bit. It was mildly comforting as it warmed the interiors of my body and depleted the goose bumps that had risen on my arms. My hands gained their stillness grasping the heat that radiated from the mug. It had taken me a few seconds to realize he'd put sugar in it.

_The perfect amount,_ I grimaced.

He startled me as he spoke, "My apologies," He goes over his desk drawers again. "I'm never usually this unorganized," Apparently, finding what he'd been rummaging for, he happily returns to his chair with a sigh of relief. His arm had been shielding the treasure he lurked for inside of his drawers. For a moment he blankly stared at me. I take another sip; afraid I'd offended him. "Is it the sugar?"

Almost on instinct, the mug dramatically removes itself from my lips. My eyes shoot up to him, awaiting an answer with his eyebrows furrowed slightly and his mouth pursed.

"Um-I'm sorry, what?" I stammered like a fool.

"The sugar-I put it in your tea and I neglected to ask you how you-" I cut his drawn-out strategy of analyzing-off with a hasty recoil.

"It's fine," He snapped back, looking down at what lie in his lap.

"Well," He sighed. As his eyes weren't fixed on me momentarily, I had the chance to survey him again. Sadly, he already seemed sort of defeated. "I guess I should start by introducing myself," He clears his throat. In that moment, I realize he hadn't touched his tea. Before my subconscious could validate a justifiable reason for him not to even have a sip, my conscious immediately traveled to his tactics of drugging my tea. He'd already put sugar in it without asking me, I reasoned. I looked down at what was left,

_it's much too late,_ and I sighed in defeat.

He continued looking down as he spoke. He was concentrated on something I couldn't see. With half of the mug low with tea, I finished it.

"I'm Benedict. If you're comfortable calling me Ben, as I introduced myself, that's fine too," His eyes snapped back to me. Walking himself over to me as the wheels in his chair rotated, I handed him the mug. "First thing's first, I'm a therapist-not a shrink. I've been doing this for about two years now, so far I enjoy it," He places the mug back on to tray next to his untouched (un-drugged) tea. "I'm from England-as you can probably tell," He wheels himself to sit directly across from me. Those eyes stare down my soul relentlessly. I felt like the eyes of the entire world had me in their sites. I shriveled under his gaze. "I was born in Hammersmith, my Mother's a lawyer, my Father-a judge, and I graduated all honors from Cambridge." He finished in one breath.

_Am I supposed to compete with that?_

"Now, tell me a little about yourself," His hands remain folded on his knees. I assumed he was supposed to be taking notes. The less documented, the better. I was already annoyed as he paraded all of his awards and trophies, and perfect family-as if it meant something.

"Okay," I was wilting under that cocked eyebrow and the grin that slowly played on his face, but I've been weaker and pitted against bigger adversaries. I was going to do something that would throw him off completely. I was going to shed the feathers of the shy swallow and give him full-on hawk. I was going to be completely honest.

"I'm Natasha," My voice shivered second-guessing my choice of strategy. I begin to revolve my thumbs around each other and focus on that alone. "I'm twenty-three, I'm a Graphic Designer who didn't finish art school-but it keeps the lights on," I was gaining that ounce of confidence back with every word. In no time, I was going o be able to look him straight in those eyes. "I was born in West Chester, raised on the lower east-side of Manhattan," That confidence evolved into full-on arrogance as our eyes battled each other for dominance. As my ploy gathered itself on its feet, I readied my defense. "My mother's an alcoholic with that rare gift of knowing what's best for everyone besides herself, and this was her idea." I finished in one breath, almost afraid he would kick me out of office, or right me a prescription to Lithium; but he didn't, he just stared.

With nothing left to say, he bowed his head and began to softly chuckle. I tried to mask the chagrin that roused my cheeks and clammed my hands.

_He's got his work cut out for him,_ I groaned.

His head rose with a serious grin.

"Look," He spoke very easily but his tone made me a sunflower in the dead of winter; my leaves shook and my stem was bound to snap. "You came here for a reason. You could have just-as-well walked out when you wanted to, but you didn't," I sat there humbling in his presence; devolving from hawk, to sparrow and back down to the meek swallow I resented. "There's something you want out of this," He looked down at his lap again. "I'm not here to judge you, or call you on your flaws, but this is a two-way street," His words humbled me back into reality. There were a couple of printed papers on top of two wired pads. "Here you are," He handed them to me. He zipped back to the cup on that held about sixty-three writing utensils.

"What's this?" I remained defeated in my own right. I read over the title,

**CONFIDENTIAL SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT AND MUTUAL RELEASE**

Big, bold letters in Garamond Pro, graced the top of the page, along with Ben's surname.

_Cumberbatch,_ I held back a wild cackle, though, I made an inaudible snort. _Benedict Cumberbatch,_ I subjected my face into my palm trying to hide the humor that rolled within my chest.

_No way can that be his real name,_ I tried to contain the fit of giggles that bottled up.

"Read through it, if you like. It basically states that anything you confide within me, by law, cannot be discussed, distributed or reiterated to anyone else," It was nice to know that my word was safe but I couldn't tear my eyes away from that _name._ It wasn't hideous-no-it was more perplexing than anything. One-half of his name belonged to the papacy, and the other half was a drunken mesh of random letters from the alphabet. He was so prim and astute, I wasn't surprised that he'd introduced himself as Ben, too bad there was no shortening his last name.

"I know a confidentiality agreement when I see one," I quipped, grazing through some of the lines and flipping the page over to sign. With an annoyed sigh, I scribbled my signature on the line provided. "Here," My lips curled in an inevitable grin, thinking back to that mess of letters. _**"Cumberbatch,"**_ I snorted, trying to keep a straight face, but failing miserably. It sounded even more ludicrous bounding through my lips. So many consonants!

"Is it funny?" His smirk wasn't as playful as before.

"It' hilarious," His smile grows wider as he looks down at the writing pads on his lap.

"I have to say, I'm overjoyed you have a sense of humor," He mumbled with the rise and fall of his right brow. "For a moment, I could have sworn I was talking to a wet-paper bag," He clears his throat with a hint of ambiguity. Another exhausted sigh leaves the presence of my lungs as he hands me a writing pad. "But, I'm more than content with you exuding some type of emotion," Apparently, he wasn't game for putting up with any of my shit.

"What's this for?" I took it and nervously began clicking the retractable bottom on the pen, awaiting an answer.

"It's our first exercise," He flips the cover over, opening the book to a blank page. "I want you to write your name on the cover," I began to quickly print my name sloppily on the cover. "Legibly, please," I roll my eyes. I continue in a neater form. "Perfect. Now, open it to the first page," I did so, smacking the end of the pen against the paper. I really didn't want to keep annoying him, but it was so entertaining to push him to snarky counteracts and frustration. I didn't know why, but I loved it. This wasn't usually how I behaved around a perfect stranger, but something about him urged me to give him that reaction.

"Now what," He became increasingly impatient by the minute. I contemplated carefully how long it was going to take for him to refer me to another therapist, or kick me out of his office altogether.

"At the count of three, I'm going to ask you a question in which we'll both jot down a one-word answer at the same time. I'm going to try and match the answer you've written. After it's written, rip it off and throw it on the floor in front of you," He instructed politely. This had to be some summer camp-sleepover-bullshit, I've ever heard of. Were these even real methods?

"Is this really going to-"

_"Just,"_ He warrants. His voice was at a normal speaking tone but his bravado was what startled me. "Do as I've instructed, please," He readies his pen.

"Fine," Retorting, I did the same.

"Great," He positioned himself upright in his chair. "On three: one…two…three," He counted down, studying my demeanor. I sat back on the lounge with my legs crossed and the pad on my lap. Even if I never wanted to admit it, I was adjusting. "Favorite movie?" I almost went to write it, until I realized,

"Are you really going to try and guess that?" He looked around the room as if I had asked him something irregular.

"Yes," _Duh_ was what he really wanted to say. "Now write, please,"

**Wait Until Dark**

It was late 60's Audrey Hepburn film that cast her as a blind woman who fought of crooks, one of them played by Alan Arkin. It was truly my favorite, even though I'd liked to write something sarcastic.

I ripped the paper off of the wire and through it down in front of me. He hadn't even paid attention to it as he was still writing. With a sly smirk, he threw his paper down,

**_Girl Interrupted._**

_Asshole,_ As it was apparently only funny to him.

"Very funny," His laugh was quiet but it was as rich as his voice; bouncing off his vocal chords in deep tones.

"Okay," He giggled once more and straightened himself out. "That was just an example, I'm going to ask you questions that require much needed concentration. If you need to think about it, that's absolutely okay, I won't throw mine out until you're done," I nodded and awaited his next question.

"Who is someone you currently trust in your life?" That took nothing to think about,

**No one**

We threw our papers down almost at the exact second. I was too busy gearing for the next question to see what he had written.

"What makes you the happiest?" This question definitely took some digging deep to answer. I only really remember being happy when I was much younger. Maybe, thirteen years from then. Even then, I couldn't pinpoint what made me happy, because it was probably something completely illegal. I thought menially.

**Money**

I scribbled it, throwing it down onto my pile of papers to see that he wasn't finished writing yet. My eyes darted down to see what he had written for the last question,

_**Boyfriend.**_

There it was, in scribbled letters that I could barely read. And somehow, I could read it clearly. It didn't have to be legible, or in cursive, or in big bold Times New Roman. It sort of saddened me.

He threw out another,

_**Loneliness.**_

It was as if the wind had been knocked out of me. It wasn't the sharp letters that killed me; it was the accuracy of it. I didn't know whether to be apprehensive or…I just didn't know…

"What makes you the unhappiest?"

Another easy one...

**People**

I felt oddly content with this exercise. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to like it; that would be playing in his hand, and I wasn't about to forfeit all of my secrets to someone like him. I just enjoyed not having to say any of this aloud; I wasn't as evasive or nervous as I was coming into this. He might have been onto something, after all. Though, I wasn't about to admit that to myself.

For that answer he had thrown down _**Loneliness**_ in another ugly handwritten response.

"Now, this one is going to be a little different. List me three things you want out of our sessions," I wasn't even sure how often or how many times I had to see him. This was all so informal, but I wasn't about to give up now. I started to ponder what I truly wanted in the first place…

**1) Stability**

That was a good one, I think everyone could use a bit of stability. I knew I needed a gratuitous amount to stay away from a padded cell.

**2) Trust**

I wrote that knowing that it wasn't going to just appear out of thin air. It was going to take some serious solitude and a better attitude to learn to trust anyone or anything…or to even be trusted.

**3) I want to be fixed**

The words almost wrote themselves. I thought about my long quest up to the offices and remembered that was all I could think about. I just wanted to be fixed.

He finished writing.

"Now, instead of throwing them down, we'll exchange them," This was nerve wrecking. I hardly knew this man, how was I supposed to show him things I only thought to myself? He held his paper out to me proudly, as I was more than hesitant to hand him mine. He cleared his throat, noticing my holding out. "Thank you," We exchanged them gently between each other. Before looking down, he spoke, "Remember, everything you say or do is protected by that agreement you signed. And I'm not here to put anything past you," He, then looked down and began to examine the paper carefully. Watching him, I almost forgot to do the same.

**_emotional stability._**

How did this man get into high school with what he called penmanship? Though, he was dead-on, that was something everyone needs in general.

_**solidarity/a voice**_

_Touché,_ I thought. It wasn't as vague as the first. It made close-to-perfect sense, in all actuality. One thing I did seek was harmony within myself. I was slightly skeptical, but more so curious, on how he came up with these answers.

_**FINISH YOUR STORY**_

The last one was weird. Honestly, I hadn't understood what he was getting at with it. He was spot-on with the first two-the second, especially. I just wasn't sure where he was coming from with this, although, that had been his nature. It seemed he hid behind his own obscurity as if he was hiding some special power. The obscurity within him fit his weird name and uncanny facial features.

"Hmm," He began with an uncertain observation.

"What?" I don't know what made me so curious of his opinions, but I was. I was probably under that psycho-babble voodoo people talk about…by people, I mean my mother after her fifth shot of Johnny Walker Black.

"Do you feel you're broken?" It was an obscure question, but I had the answer rolling somewhere around my noggin. He wanted me to have more of a voice, anyway.

"I-" He ditches the writing pad onto his desk and gives me his undivided attention. "I don't feel as put-together-" I had to gather my words correctly, in fear, I hadn't been using the right ones. He graduated Cambridge University at the top of his class; so I hadn't finished art school but I wasn't about to sound like an imbecile. "I don't feel as composed as I once felt. I feel like…" I searched for something to follow up with. I thought he'd interject but he listened. I mean: that _was_ his job. "I don't feel like I can relate, or understand anyone else…myself especially," His eyes turned softly as his facial expression followed. "There's a void, you know…" My voice weakly trailed off.

"But you're far from broken, Natasha," I gulped holding an emotional breakdown back and cleared my throat. "Do you medicate that void frequently?" I couldn't give him an answer, even though I knew it. I was positive /he/ knew it. He withdrew himself, as he didn't want to push the issue any further. He probably sensed the storm rising in my chest and the clouds that misted in my eyes.

"What did you mean by this?" I turned the page toward him and pointed at his handwriting. He smiled a thoughtful smile.

"The last thing you told me, as I recall it, was that your mother-a drunkard-suggested you come here and seek help,"

"Right,"

"The last thing you told me about yourself was that you were raised in Manhattan; there's more to your wanton quips and your-" He gets lost in his own answer. I watch as he exaggerates every word with the motion of his stem-like fingers. "-Your sarcastic tendencies. There's a part of you that wants to do better and it's best to know exactly why that fire burns."

_What the fuck acting school did this asshole come from?_ I was beside myself, almost to the point of an applause.

"Okay," I breathed. I went to hand his paper back to him and he handed me a manila folder instead.

"I want you to keep that in this," He hands me the folder, he has his own as well. I place the paper inside of it as I watch him pick up the heap of papers we made on the carpet.

"How often do we have to do this-these sessions?" He took his eyes off of the floor and gave me that obscure smirk again.

"Until you feel this is useless to you,"

_HA!_

"I'd like to see you at least twice a week until we really start making progress," He returned to placing the papers in the folder. It made sense; it was nice to know he wasn't keeping me there against the will of all of my issues needing to be repaired.

He rolled his chair back to its rightful position, behind his desk as he checked his watch.

"Well," He walks over to me after scribbling something down on paper. He doesn't return it to me in the process. "I think that's all the time we have for today," He walked over to me as I stood and realized my butt fell asleep. I grabbed my jacket and purse from behind me and folded them over my arm.

Thank God, I honestly couldn't handle anymore of it but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

"I think we made some striving efforts today; what do you say?" We locked eyes as he stood mere centimeters away from me. I could smell the cologne he wore; it was a soft, masculine scent of neroli and a bed of fully bloomed roses. It was oddly comforting.

"Yeah…" I nodded and gave him a small smile.

"It was nice meeting you, Natasha," The way he said my name, though! What was happening to me?

_Pyscho-babble voodoo,_ My eyes squint for a second as I stuck out my hand.

"It's nice meeting you too, Benedict Cumberbatch," I couldn't help but giggle. This time, I didn't feel like I needed to hold it back. "Honestly, it sounds like Dr. Seuss," I couldn't stop myself.

"That's something I haven't heard before," I was sure to sense the sarcasm that parted his lips.

"I'm sorry," I gathered myself, clearing my throat. "I'll see you-"

"Wednesday, same time," It was just Monday, after all. "And you don't have to apologize, it was funny," It was the first time that day his voice didn't sound threatening.

"Okay, I'll see you then. Thanks." I opened the door to leave.

"Pleasure's all mine." He waved from the doorway. I walked to the elevator and pulled out my phone. Unlocking the screen I realized what time it was.

_2:17PM_

"Shit…" I didn't have any plans that day, thankfully but two hours had gone and went. I also realized I needed a cigarette.

_Bad._

Coming from the building, the sun hadn't made its public appearance yet. As long as it hadn't begun raining yet, I was content. I turned into the alley and stood against the wall. There were steel doors that lead into the back way of the building. I exhaled, proud of myself that I sat two hours in a room-with a stranger-and didn't piss myself in anxiety or fear. The realization set in when I realized that I was going to be seeing him for God-knows how long and for twice a week. I wasn't sure how I felt about it.

I snapped back to the real reason I standing in that alley.

_I need a smoke._

I opened my purse, instinctively grabbing the box of Marlboro Lites at the top. The only issue was, that weren't there. I scavenged around my purse like a squirrel looking for an invisible nut.

_Lighter.__  
__Phone.__  
__Wallet.__  
__Keys._  
**FUCK!**

They were nowhere to be found.

"Shit…" I searched a little more, as the opening of the side door went unnoticed.

"Looking for these?" A familiar accent snapped me out of the hunt. I looked up to see Ben with that smirk that made all of his features like a masterpiece.

_Ew._

"Thanks," I looked down, almost ashamed that he found me jonesing for an inhale. He stood next to me and did that weird staring thing he does. His right hand reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a lighter. The cigarette lies in between my middle and index fingers as he hitches a spark. At that point, I couldn't conceal the nicotine craving from anyone. I watched the tip burn just enough for the ash to show. I withdrew it from the flame and inhaled at once. I closed my eyes, relishing the small moment of revelry in that alleyway. I looked to Ben who sported his addiction to nicotine quite proudly. The yellow box of Natural American Spirits was tucked into his right-front pocket.

"You know," He inhaled without taking his eyes off of me, and exhaled through his teeth. "Those patches don't work," I was the first to snort in a small fit of unnerved giggles and that laugh rolled through the two of us; quite possibly scaring a couple passersby. Without registering it, I began to watch him laugh-inhale-exhale-repeat. I remembered being skeptical of him drugging my tea and laughed even harder.

_Maybe he's not that stiff,_ I contemplated wile taking another drag.

_Maybe._


	4. Cough Syrup

Frozen, sat fearfully on a stool in a smoky bar in Brooklyn. Tom Petty's "Free Falling" blared on the jukebox speakers and the Phillies were creaming the Orioles on a Magnavox on mute. A stranger approached me with the breath of an inebriated, fire-breathing dragon. It was hot on my neck and until I turned around, he wouldn't stop undressing me with his eyes.

"May I help you?" I turned slowly, almost half-expecting it to be Ben again, as it would have set up the perfect irony. Facing said stranger completely, my subconscious saddened as it was not him; wanting to finish a conversation about nicotine patches and their many faults, or how the gum gave him a cavity. The man sat there with tired eyes and a rusty beard, just waiting for me to turn. His hair hung down to his shoulders in a wavy textured mess.

"Let me uh-" He stammered momentarily sizing me up. I snarled and turned back to the game. They were three-and-oh. "-Get you something to warm you up," His perverse tongue ran across the outside of his top lip strategically as my decline tumbled out of my voice box.

"No, thank you," He withdrew his body inches away from mine as his eyes grew a small flame. Pressing his hands onto the bar top, he dismissed himself from the stool and backed away.

"Fine," He declares, drunkenly backing into the jukebox. "I only like girls with D cups, anyways," He spat, chuckling his way to the men's room. The entire bar, crowded with the late-lunch crowd, had been disgusted by his account, but one guest more put-off than the others. I hadn't even noticed this guy walk in, so it made more sense that he'd been in there before me. His stature stood shorter than the stranger, though that wasn't stopping him from forcing an inaudible verbal beating onto him. They both stood beside the jukebox bantering violently as the bar stood still with suspense rolling thick through the air. The jukebox intentionally cuts off right before the men have submitted themselves to bouts of flailing fists and broken teeth.

"No, fuck you!" Spat the guest. His tone rang loud but there was something interesting about his diction.

"You wanna fuckin' go, huh?" The stranger towered over him as if to intimidate. They begin to close in on each other like prey and predator. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be breaking these beasts up or just sit there and not ruin my solid complexion with a black and blue shadow.

Tommy, the bar owner, rushes out of the back room behind the bar with his infamous bat, infamously named 'The Peacemaker'. He separates the men by parting them with the bat. The battle of testosterone quickly ceases when Tommy starts to grind into them both with words. His tattooed arms were wielding the bat, slapping it into his hands.

"Look at you, causing all of this commotion," Dana puts a shot of Fireball in front of me. Her hair was thrown up into a messy bun so you could predominantly see most of her blond coloring. You could also see light tints of temporary colors she'd applied to her hair, like a fading rainbow. She had piercings all the way down her cartilage and gauged lobes. She was a couple years older than me, but was the sweetest human being there was.

"What's this for?" She giggles as she mixed a drink for another patron.

"Your boy from across-the-pond," Her head nods in the direction opposite of the side of the bar I'd been sitting. She rushes the order over to the patron before she could even see the look on my face. I tilt my body forward, and I don't see anyone familiar, except the shorter guest who stood up for me.

_Maybe it was him,_ I pondered. Leaning myself back, I got a glimpse of his shabby hair and it instantly came to me.

"James," I said in a hushed tone. Even with Bon Jovi destroying my eardrums, he could still hear me. His head popped up from the pensive swigs he took from his drink. I turned, pretending as if I didn't see him notice me but it was much too late. I look to the empty seat next to mine; I guess I couldn't deny him a conversation as he almost gotten his ass beat because of me. With a childish glow on his rugged face, he skips over to the stool next to me. "What was all that about?" It slipped through my mouth faster than I could stop it.

"He disrespected you," He justified himself with that adorable accent. I was gradually growing accustomed to everyone I met that day being British. "I couldn't have just let that happened," He exasperated over the growling guitar color.

"Did you see how big he was, though? You could have gotten your ass handed to you in a lunchbox!" We chuckled. The moment sobered, as I figured I owed him thanks. "Thanks, though. I appreciated but I would suggest you not-" He cackles bowing his head and gaining a breath. "Get your ass beat for a girl when you don't even know her name!" I warned. His giggles subsided as he held his hand out.

"James, as you already know," His smile was very warm; he had been more sober than I thought.

"Natasha," I took his hand and gave it a firm shake.

"So, Natasha," It was something about that accent and the way my name sounded like a sacred scripture. I loved it! "Are you going to just let that sit there?" I looked to the lonely shot and sighed.

"We should do a shot together, since we're seeing the same therapist, you know," James nods in agreement, as Dana comes back over with a lovely smirk. She was almost jumping out of her skin to keep from giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Can I get you guys another shot?" She read my mind and we made mischievous eye-to-eye glances.

"Yeah, another shot of Fireball, please," James had an open tab. "How do you like him so far?" My mind had to regroup and compute the question correctly.

"It's uh-" _Mind regrouping._ "It's not something that I'm quite used to so…I guess it's just different," I shrug.

"He's a really good guy, Ben," He nods. "His methods are a little-uh-" He uses his hands describe what he's trying to say,

"Off?" I laugh, trying to finish his sentence.

"Yeah, yeah-that," He points to me. "But he's gotten me through a great deal," It was nice to know from someone else's perspective that Ben wasn't up to poisoning teas and having a secret _modus operandi._

"He seems like it," Dana comes back over with the shot she poured while she helped another customer.

"Here you are, kind sir," She puts it on the bar top in front of him, mocking his accent. We all can't help but to repair from heaving fits of laughter.

"Thank you so much. You can put this on my tab," Dana nods as she goes back to her register. He grabs his shot and gestures to grab mine. I wasn't much of a whiskey drinker, as all of my favorites were clear, but James seemed like he had good taste. I could just tell by the Joy Division shirt he wore along with his Diesel jeans. "You ready?" He raises the shot glass to his nose.

"Sure am!" I do the same. It smelled very comforting. It warmed me just from smelling it.

"To issues and-" He looks around for something else to toast to.

"C cups!" I cackle.

"To C cups!" We toast and simultaneously throw the shots back at the same time. The whiskey was surprisingly tasty. It had a spicy, cinnamon flavor to it, something like Big Red Gum or Red Hots candies. As soon as it shot down my throat it warmed my entire body. I shook and closed my eyes as it hit me. My mouth felt warm and my ears burned, but it was a good feeling overall. James took his like it was nothing and cleared his throat.

We sat there for a little while longer, as I returned the favor and bought the two of us a shot of Grey Goose Pear. We talked vaguely about our lives and how we ended up in New York City. Ben would pop up in the conversation every now and then but it hadn't been anything worth remembering. He told me about growing up in Glasgow, and wanting to be a musician, and how his parents were furious after they scent him through 'university'. His tongue was so foreign; his slang intrigued me. We talked about our love for music, and movies, and alcohol. Soon enough, time had reminded him of another engagement he was due to appear. With a sweet goodbye hug, we exchanged numbers and he departed.

It was around **5:30** when the sun began to set and ten minutes after James left the bar. The crowd began to fill-in with suits and briefcases as people exited their daily grind for a few drinks and a broken jukebox.

"He was cute!" Dana playfully slaps my arm as she withdraws herself from her black apron. She came from behind the bar with that stupid, giddy look plastered on her pale face. "Did you get his number?" I rolled my eyes, slowly feeling the effects of the brown and clear liquor commingling.

"Yeah, I uh-" My brain was going a little fuzzy, but it was a good fuzzy. "He's pretty cool," Her eyes widened as she sat in his seat next to me.

"Pretty cool?" She exasperated. "If Tommy hadn't settled that, he'd be pretty _dead!_" She cackled loudly, so much so, that everyone in the bar had been looking at us.

"Are you ready, or what?" Dana lived in the same building I lived in, so our plan was to walk home together. She nods; I grab my bag as she went in the back room to fetch her belongings.

"How was therapy?" That seemed to be the topic of the length of our walk before we got to our complex. Dana was one of the only people I told about it. I'd known her for quite some time, as she was my boss's college roommate. Dana considered me for the position at her advertising firm and vouched for me to move into the building we lived in. I owed it to her, to confide in her a little.

"It was-" Summing up my experience of my therapist being an unorthodox professional with the name, that of a Dr. Seuss character. "-Interesting,"

"Is it male or female?" We cross the street with linked arms as the sun meets the tops of the buildings ahead of us.

"Male, he's British-" She stops in her tracks.

"What is with you and being surrounded by British men? Is he hot?" I chuckle as we continue walking.

"He's handsome," My tongue's honesty had been due to the amount of liquor I consumed. Ben was handsome, even though his facial features were reminiscent of a vaguely attractive otter; it wasn't just the tone of his voice that deemed him a man worthy of a GQ cover. "He's not immediately handsome, though,"

"Like James, he was hot, immediately!" She replies.

"James sees him too," I omit with ease.

"What," All of this information seemed too much for her to handle. "You're telling me that your gorgeous, British bar mate, shares your handsome, English therapist? It must be so hard being you," She says with sarcasm thick on her tongue.

"He's not my bar mate," I retort.

"Sure, sure," She gives in as we arrive on our block. "Do you have any plans tonight?" I'm reluctant to tell her that I do, and with whom.

"Yeah…I do, actually," My eyes take direction to looking down at my sneakers.

"Oh yeah, with who?" I looked up to give her the you-know-who look with a helpless stare. "You're kidding me!"

"I wish I was, I just can't-"

"He's married, Tash!" It hit me harder when she said it. It wasn't healthy, but he gave me something that I felt I needed in order to feel good again.

"You don't think I know that!" I snapped. We walk into our building's lobby. "Scott says it's been over since June and when he's ready to tell her-" She cuts me off again.

"Do you really think he's going to leave her?" She looked up to me with sincere eyes. Scott was my high school sweetheart. He moved away to attend the University of Pennsylvania at the end of our senior year in high school as we ended our relationship. Somehow, through Dana, our paths crossed again and I unknowingly had been working for his wife, Kate. Before discovering he was married, he'd taken me out-wined me, dined me, bought me an expensive wardrobe, and taken me on vacations I'd never forget. I was more than devastated when he waltzed through the office, completely bypassing where I sat clueless in front of a computer screen, and rushed into her office with an embrace and longing kiss.

That scene play in my head as Dana still gave me the shameful glare of a million scorned women. She turned her head to wave at the front desk night auditor.

"He doesn't even come see her anymore," I try to convince the two of us. We walk our way to the elevators and wait. Rachel wasn't the best person, but she didn't deserved to be cheated on; no one deserves to be.

"He's a creep-point blank. Period." She finished. My tipsy mind was annoyed with her judgment. I deemed her jealous of what I had. Even though, that was someone's unfaithful husband.

_He was with me first,_ I protested.

We walked into the elevator waging a peaceful war in our minds. She got out first, as it reached her floor.

"I guess I'll see you around," She declared defeated.

"Yeah, I'll text you," I called after her waving.

* * *

My head pounded with pressure. Scott and I lie in a heap of body parts coated in a thin layer of sweat and a heavy coating of guilt. He'd given me a good hour-and-a-half of an erect penis and every-now-and-then-grunts. Thinking back on a few minutes ago, where he was pounding me from behind, clasping his hand hard onto my throat and told me I was the only one for him. I basked in that light for a few minutes, not wanting to ruin the silence.

"How's about Cancun?" He turns to me on his side. I was left in this post-coital haze.

"What about it?" I look to him; his gelled-back, dirty blond hair maintained its style through all of the physical extremities.

"We should go, you know…after…" His voice trails in uncertain destiny. I gave some of what Dana said clear thought.

_Was he really going to leave her?_ Quite frankly, I was getting tired of seeing him visit her with bouquets of pink and yellow roses and Godiva chocolates. Apologetic eyes and she didn't even know what he was so sorry for; she thought he'd been the perfect husband.

_When was that going to be me?_ I always thought. I knew I would have to switch jobs if that were the case. I wouldn't be able to stand the awkward silences and heartbreak in her eyes if he was ever to bound in with roses and chocolate for me.

"I'm going to tell her,"

"What exactly are you going to say?" I looked to him with a sobered glare.

"I'm going to tell her about us," He defined. I would be humiliated, not to mention, out of a job. "She has to know that I've found someone else," He takes my hand in his and begins to trail soft kisses up my arm. I still wasn't very excited about all of this. She would probably be completely heartbroken, distraught, scorned mostly. I wasn't sure how serious he was until now. I honestly, didn't know how to continue the conversation. "We've been having issues for months, it's not like she won't see it coming," He continues to press warmer kisses on my shoulders as he leads to the nape of my neck. It felt good, hell, it felt amazing-but it was so wrong. He didn't belong to me; he hadn't belonged to me in such a long time.

_What am I supposed to do?_ Before I knew it, he had already gotten on top of me and we were back at it again. I wasn't able to say anything to protest because his mouth had taken over mine in a heated battle for dominance. He was the best thing I couldn't have again, and I was the girl on the other side of the impending doom.

"The only one for me," He growled into my ears all I could muster was a moan.

He had me again.

I showered that night, washing all evidence of Scott down the drain. I couldn't go back to work tomorrow with his scent fresh on my skin, she'd notice. It was bad enough I had to look her square in the eyes after her husband had me all over my apartment, knocking things over and frightening my cat in the midst of our frantic rendezvous.

_**The only one for me,**_ His words rotated in my head just as breathless as he heaved them.

I couldn't think about much else before drifting off to sleep that night. I wasn't even sure I felt the same way. That's a white lie-I knew I didn't feel the same way. I was using him, as he'd been using me for three years.

Midway through his marriage, he was bored, as he tells it. He wanted something new-but familiar, something different-but convenient. As it sounds like he was picking out the perfect furniture for his Manhattan penthouse, that wasn't the case. He was shopping the market for a worthy candidate to step out on his marriage with. Somehow, I fit those criteria.

The odd thing was-Kate and I were the complete opposite. She had her shit together, and she made sure everyone that surrounded her knew so. Everything she wore bared the name of a dead designer: Dior, Chanel, McQueen. She'd be caught dead before she was caught behind trend. I'm sure she was giving Vogue advice at one point in her life.

Then, there was me. I enjoyed fashion, when I could afford it but I had a heart for vintage pieces, Of course, Dior, Chanel and the late-but-great McQueen were my muses, but I was a sucker for Old Hollywood glamor. Everything was constructed based on the around the geometrics of the body; fashion was more personal then. Every shape, contour, or bust-line never went under appreciated. Everything was so subjective to style-to art, then. My work attire remained jeans and t-shirts-twenty-four/seven, three-sixty-five. I would find ways to dress them up if I really wanted to, with pumps or wedges…when I felt like it. I had a pretty solid collection of sneakers and flats that were my go-to options.

I didn't know what he saw in me, other then the hunger for sex we both longed for. We were so opposite the spectrum, honestly, I had no clue.

* * *

I awoke the next morning, feeling as if I slept double the time I really had. Feeling remarkably energetic after sleeping only six hours, I clearly remembered that I took my last two _Kaltrocipen_ before bed. _Kaltrocipen_ was the lesser-known version of _Xanax._ The dosages varied similar to that of the other prescription but this was a little more effective. It was like _Xanax_ and _Valium_ had a one-night-stand and made _Kaltrocipen._ It calmed nerves and helped anxiety similar to _Xanax_ but it momentarily numbed the synapse as _Valium_ does. I've been on it for as long as I can remember. I was also illegally prescribing myself doses of _Aphymenal,_ to focus and concentrate on work. When I ran out of _Kaltrocipen,_ I self-medicated with a couple irregular doses of _Ambien,_ as a sedative, of course. Having been a part-time street pharmacist myself, I knew not to mix doses and exactly how much to take. I knew how much would get me high enough to function around people and still feel relatively good. I knew how high to get if I really needed a lift for a couple days. It comes with its flaws, though. If you're not careful, you could miss a Wednesday or an entire week.

I fed my orange and white cat, Theodore, before leaving with bag and leather motorcycle jacket intact. It was a sunny October morning. I let my hair flow naturally as I was much too tired to blow-dry it the night prior. Its soft waves blew through the chill in the breeze and flowed behind me. I switched it up that day and wore a mosaic pencil skirt with a casual V-neck, black stockings and a pair of leather booties.

I was on my way to the pharmacy a few blocks from the complex. I decided to fill my prescription before work, in case I came into a calamity with Rachel that would cause my nerves to shut down completely. I was never able to think on my feet without my little helpers. They were my batteries.

I walked into the dead pharmacy to see them just opening. It had been a quarter-to-eight and I had to be to work by nine. I had a little time to spare.

"Hi," I waved to the owner, Ollie. He went to high school with my mom and we shared the same birthday. He was thirty years older than me but he was really nice.

"Ms. Carlo," He greets me as he punches numbers in on his register. He was bald with these coke-bottle lenses that were so adorable. He only stood at 5'5", but he was the nicest man on earth. He never questioned my prescriptions of choice, he was just happy I came by to see him. Apparently, him and my mother were friends all the way up into their junior year of high school. As he says, she helped a group of greasers destroy his extensive Science Project and they haven't spoken since then. "How are you this fine morning?"

"I'm well, Ollie," I dug for the prescription bottle and placed it on the counter. "Could you refill this for me?" There was a small copay I had to pay but it was worth my sanity.

"Sure can," He turned his back to me, fiddling with pill bottles in Ziploc bags. "Say, when are you going to start dating?" He would always do this, I knew exactly what was going to happen next-he was going to threaten me to go out with his thirty-five year-old bastard child of a son. His son, who still lived in the basement of his mother's and had a U2 tribute band.

No thanks.

"I am, Ollie," I warranted.

"You know, you're 24," He's still back there trying to find my prescription. I start to wonder, as it has never taken this long to find it. "You're beautiful. A lot of more astute men fall for brunettes, like my son Miles," There he goes.

"No thank you, Ollie!" We both giggled. He returned to face me with a bag and questioning look. "What's up?"

"It says here, your prescription's been changed to _Saphalopan,_" That was a prescription of a lesser dose than my original. That was candy; I wouldn't be able to get through half-a-day with that bullshit.

"What? Who changed it? I haven't talked to anyone," In fact, I did speak to someone; I just hadn't realized it yet.

"Uh-I have the referral here, one second," Ollie looked down at the label. "A fella with a funny name, _Cumberbatch._" I crumpled the dollars in my hand, snatched the bottle from the counter and slapped the money onto the counter. I stormed out of there without a word.

_That rat bastard, know-it-all, piece of human excrement!_

I was going to get him back for this.


End file.
